


There's Something There

by HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: And then maybe later it's requited, Fluff, Hypnotism, Love Confessions, M/M, Unrequited Love, cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 16:11:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1434622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson/pseuds/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Will you hypnotise my phobia away?"</p>
<p>"Of course"</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Something There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotQuiteWatson](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=NotQuiteWatson).



John hadn’t wanted to be hypnotized, but even he agreed that his… fear was disrupting their lives. Sherlock had- slightly reluctantly- agreed to hypnotize the phobia away, and so here John sat, eyes vacant, in his chair. Sherlock didn’t like John in his trance-like state. He wasn’t animated enough. Even when he’d sit in 221B with a book Sherlock could always see his eyes flitting over the page, his tongue sliding over his lips, fingers tapping on the armrest. Now he was still. Unnerving.

Sherlock cleared his throat hesitantly and squared his shoulders. The scientific benefits of the experiment had made him curious, curious enough to accept John’s request- though he would have done that anyway (anything for John Hamish Watson).

“Can you hear me John?” he asked, leaning forward, fascinated. John nodded. Sherlock grabbed John’s laptop and, typing in the password, set up a quick search to find the best way to get rid of a phobia. Once he’d filtered through all the unequivocal nonsense and found a good website, he set the laptop down and leaned back in his chair.

Here was a rare opportunity to find out how much John trusted him. So much control over another dull- no John was never dull, never ordinary- control over another human being then. Why get started at the professional stuff right away? Sherlock asked himself, steepling his fingers under his chin and thinking hard. He closed his eyes and went to his mind palace. 

_Down the stairs. Second floor down. Third Hallway on the right. Left. Right. Green door at the end of the hall. Sherlock’s hand paused on the doorknob. Then, just as quickly as it had come, his moment of hesitation had gone, and he pulled out the key, twisted it in the lock, and pushed the door open. He breathed in the smell of gunpowder, tea and hideous jumpers. John. John himself wasn’t in the room- no doubt wandering Sherlock’s ‘emotions’ room and, ever so subtly, changing it for the better._

_John’s army things lay in a meticulously organized box on top of the wardrobe, memories best left hidden, so Sherlock swept past them and sat down on the bed. In the middle of it, just by his index finger, lay a beating heart. Purely metaphorical. Only John could be entrusted with Sherlock’s heart. John had Sherlock’s heart for the same reason John’s bedroom door was locked: Sherlock... cared for John. Loved?_

_He automatically flinched away from the word. He’d spent too long blocking those emotions. Emotions... Just like that he was running, sprinting out of his Mind Palace, up the stairs. John waited at the top- his mind palace John, who kept him right, just like the real one. As he dashed by his John shot him a reassuring smile._

“John.” Sherlock whispered, voice hoarse. Only the barest twitch of John’s head showed he was aware of Sherlock’s presence. Sherlock cleared his throat nervously. “How- How do you feel about me John?”

For a moment John didn’t say anything and Sherlock slumped back in his chair, ready to begin the actual hypnotism, when John spoke. “I- I- I-“ John’s speech was stuttered, quiet, and muttered, but Sherlock heard him. His breath caught in his throat. 

“John?” he prompted, voice strangled with unfamiliar emotion.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes.” John said simply. Sherlock’s heart leapt, and he was on his feet in a second. 

“And I you.” He smiled, and a weight he’d been unaware of lifted off his shoulders. He pulled John to his feet, feeling the compliance of the hypnotized. Abruptly the magic of the moment diminished in the light of the obvious, a lightning deduction he’d dismissed in the moment. So stupid. 

John was hypnotized. 

About ten minutes later Sherlock settled back into his chair with a huff. He’d got rid of John’s phobia- first try of course, he hadn’t been labeled genius for nothing- and all that remained now was to bring him out of his trance so they could celebrate. 

“John.” Sherlock smirked. “John Watson. John Watson, you keep me right. You...” he trailed off and held up his hand. Confessions were best shared with both parties awake and active. “And you will wake in three, two, one...” he snapped his fingers and John’s glass-eyed gaze faltered and his head drooped for a second before jerking up again as he fully awoke.

“Sherlock?” he asked questioningly. “Is it gone?”

“If by it, you mean the phobia and not the fingers I’ve acquired for my next experiment, then yes.” John’s face changed as he smiled. 

“What was it like?” Sherlock asked, face alight with curiosity. He had to know. And how else was he to introduce the topic of John’s confession?

John frowned, mouth turning down as he struggled with his memories. “I don’t remember any of it.” He admitted sheepishly. “Did you need to know for an experiment?”

The weight that had lifted off Sherlock’s shoulders minutes before dropped back with some extra weights. John didn’t remember. He opened his mouth, ready to tell John himself, but some unquantifiable thing stopped him. He closed his mouth and turned to look out of the window. A thousand snapshots of his life before Doctor John Hamish Watson flashed into his mind. The drugs, the highs, the tortured recoveries, the gradual release... and then John. The laughter, the danger, the thrill of the chase...

“Nothing at all?” He asked, trying to force the choked tone out of his voice. His throat seemed to have closed up and he was having trouble breathing- an altogether strange experience. 

“No.” John looked like he was trying his best. “Nothing.”

“John-“ he stopped himself.

And if John didn’t wish to reciprocate? Not yet, anyway? Or if the hypnotism had duped him somehow? John would leave. And Sherlock knew he couldn’t take that. Never. 

Sherlock’s phone beeped and, glad for any distraction, he scooped it up. Lestrade. Another case he’d be struggling at for weeks if Sherlock didn’t help. “Case.” He explained briefly to a still-disoriented John, picking up his scarf and knotting it round his neck. Sherlock pulled on his coat and headed for the door. He heard John’s fumbling behind him and sped up a little. He needed space.

Sherlock held up his hand to call a cab, only to have a familiar black sedan stop at the curb. The window rolled down. “Piss off Mycroft.” He grumbled, moving further along the street and raising his hand again. No taxis appeared, and Mycroft’s sedan only followed his steps. With a sigh of defeat Sherlock opened the door and slid inside, just as John closed the door to 221B.

“Drive.” He demanded, and the car purred to life and drove off, leaving John looking hurt on the pavement. 

“Charming.” Mycroft said, raising and eyebrow. 

“Shut. Up.” Sherlock growled.

“Quite the performance you made too.” Mycroft continued. “I had no idea you were capable of such feeling, brother mine.”

Sherlock resolutely ignored him for the rest of the ride, springing out of the car the moment they reached the crime scene. Lestrade was waiting for him by the yellow tape, scanning for him.

“Sherlock!” he grinned. “Where’s John?”

“Couldn’t make it.” Sherlock invented and started to push past into the house, only to feel Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder.

“Hang on. Hang on.”

Sherlock spun back round, exasperated. “What now?” 

“Who’s this?” Lestrade asked, pointing at Mycroft, who was standing on the other side of the tape, hand on his umbrella, smirking.

“My insufferable brother, Mycroft.” Sherlock gestured dismissively. “He’s the British Government.” He leant closer and whispered into Lestrade’s ear. “Run.”

He spun back round. “Sherlock!” he heard Mycroft call lazily. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Aggravated, Sherlock pulled himself to a stop and called introductions over his shoulder.

“Gavin Lestrade!” he called. “He’s a man, and good at it.” With that he strode into the building and dashed down the stairs, taking them two at a time. He heard Lestrade’s muffled yell as he ducked under a second line of tape and Mycroft’s bemused “Enchanted.” He brushed past Anderson with barely a remark and bent down to inspect the bodies.

The deductions were excellent distractions.  
 _Left handed. Both of them. Married six months. Happy marriage. Teacher. Librarian. Not murdered here. Two murders. No. One professional and an assistant. Night murder. Living in a high end London flat. Job’s insufficient for such luxury. Sponsor then. Parent, judging by the locket. Father was rich. Teacher’s dad. Died two- no three years ago. Smudging. Polish. Worn. Edges._

“Sherlock.” Sherlock was jerked out of his deductions by the familiar cadences of John’s voice. His friend was crouched opposite him, examining the bodies with the sort of care only a Doctor could administer. He looked a little hurt by Sherlock having abandoned him, but mostly concerned. That was a good way to describe how John tended to look at Sherlock in the infrequent quiet moments: concerned. As if Sherlock were a patient. Fondness too, but mostly concern.

“John.” He said evenly, rolling his- his friend’s name off his tongue as he had a thousand times before.

John looks up from the woman’s hands and smiles uncertainly. “What happened?” he asks, laying the lady’s hand gently back onto the carpeted floor.

“When?” Sherlock feigns ignorance as he has time and time again. It fools most people. Not John though. Never John. John shoots him a disapproving look.

“When you hypnotized me.” John explains carefully, taking his time to choose the right words, the right way to say what he’s so plainly thinking. “I said something. Something that made you run out of the flat like that.” He shook his head and laughed. “No case is ever that exciting.”

Sherlock looked back to the couple on the floor and mulishly refused to meet John’s gaze. A sudden intake of breath let him know John had reached his conclusion. Sherlock stood up and prepared to find Lestrade- the murderer was the Teacher’s sister (of course), when John appeared.

Slight squeeze to his metacarpophalangeal joint as John joined their hands together. And then, in a gesture as easy as breathing, Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips softly to John’s. A moment’s pressure on John’s mouth, and then he pulled back, feeling John’s fingers tangled in his unruly curls. Sherlock smiled and gripped John’s hand. 

It would all be fine.

His phone buzzed with a text.

_Going for dinner with the Inspector._

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, then the phone buzzed again.

_Glad to see you finally sorted that out._


End file.
